Reprisals
by Katiebugg1321
Summary: Reactions following the events of Superman Returns.
1. LL

AN: My first venture into the Superman fandom! Just saw the movie, loved it, saw it again, needed to read and write more about the goings-on. So I've penned this fic from Lois' point of view. It takes place a few days after the events of Superman Returns. It's my attempt to flesh out a little more this fabulous character and some of the decisions/reactions from the film.

Reprisals

By: OneSongKatie

Lois shivered in the cool night air, crossed her arms tightly around her body. Standing in front of her house, gazing sightlessly at the dark water all around her, she suppressed another shiver and squared her shoulders. She turned her eyes heavenward and sighed.

God she needed a cigarette.

Fishing in the pocket of her robe, she felt only soft cloth and empty space. Lois stifled a curse. Richard had taken to stealing her cigarettes whenever he found a cache. Guess he discovered the bathrobe pocket.

_Figures_, she thought idly.

Lois appreciated how dedicated the men in her life were to her health. Generally.

Not tonight. Tonight she needed a damn smoke.

Lois tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. With no nicotine to stimulate her brain, she could no longer suppress the churning torrent of thoughts, thoughts about recent events. About her swiftly crumbling grip on calmness.

When had her life become so complicated? She really wondered. She couldn't pinpoint the precise moment everything began to spin beyond both her control and her comprehension.

But she could estimate. She could get pretty damn close.

_Him_.

Meeting him, loving him. Somewhere in there, Lois decided. Somewhere around the day she met _him_.

That's when her life had careened away from anything resembling normalcy.

Lois once again crossed her arms in front of her chest, warding off a chill that did not seem wholly caused by the coolness of the evening.

Above her, she noted a bright ¾ moon casting the shapes around her yard in unnatural silver tones, lending the events in her mind a fittingly surreal stage to play upon. The slight wind bit through her robe's thin cloth. She felt so tired. Deeply tired, weighted down.

She didn't even know his real name.

Lois remembered a time when that was deadly alluring. There was danger there, electric and alive—being held by a man whose identity was as hazy to her as the skyline over which they flew.

She liked to think then that she didn't _need_ to know his name to love him. She loved him. That was enough. She told herself the connection they shared transcended tawdry details like real names, identities. Little things didn't matter. Their love necessitated evaluation on a grander scale.

She had only to stare into his eyes to feel the depth of his love. He didn't lie, his eyes didn't lie.

_Those eyes. _

Eyes of the same earnest blue she could see set upon the face of her son.

An impossible thing, that. Impossible, and yet Lois knew now it was not merely possible. More than that it was stark reality.

Jason was his.

Lois inhaled deeply the crisp night air, feeling the full gravity of what she knew to be true. It seemed momentarily that the weight of it crushed her, made her feel claustrophobic.

There could be no denying it now, no taking it back or persuading herself that the signs weren't there.

_No taking it back._ The words echoed in her ears. Would she?

She considered for a moment, let herself think about _before_ all of this, and the ease with which she had once sailed through life. She was Lois Lane, hard-nosed reporter. Nothing could slow her momentum.

The Man of Steel might deflect bullets with his chest, but she could do it with a well-synced, haughty stride, a narrowing of her eyes—and of course a flick of her pen. A woman of steel. If not in actual practice, then in essence.

But to go back, now, spin the world backward and return to an old life that felt so long ago now.

She knew in her heart the answer. Knew she'd never go back. Even if she could, Lois found it inconceivable to imagine a life without Jason, a life without the rush of emotion she felt upon hearing his voice, seeing him learn new things, watching him grow. Her every thought was of him, for him.

When he was born her world changed, shifted on its axis to revolve in a new direction. She held his tiny finger in her hand and crossed a threshold from which she could not return. His life was linked inextricably with her own.

Of course when she first discovered she was pregnant she reacted in a way that would refute that claim.

But she was so afraid then. Afraid of the possibilities.

She had been seeing Richard, an easy relationship born of her own still smoldering anger and his emotional accessibility. There was understanding there. She and Richard shared a fluency, their bond lacked any trace of earth-shattering proportions. A great relief for her, and, ultimately, a rebound relationship that swiftly took on more stable scope.

She assumed more than knew the child was his. Assumed because she could not shake the notion, nor ignore that she felt very strongly—that there was a very real possibility she had slept with Superman.

At first she didn't remember.

Her body told her what her mind could not recall. It was as if there was a cloud, gray and dense, shrouding a portion of her memory.

Such a strange feeling, to sense constantly that you had forgotten something important, something you _needed_ to remember. Like a red string tied around a finger. A shape at the edge of her vision, that when she'd turn to see it, would disappear.

It was maddening. And, one day, Lois decided to stop. It was an easy decision, easy as flipping a light switch 'off.' Like getting a shot of Novocain in her heart. She buried any nagging suspicions, stopped trying to break through the cloud, crack her memory code.

Instead she willed Richard to be the father. She decided it too wholly inconceivable for any alternative to be true.

Not to mention she was angry as hell in those days. Whether due to hormones or the flat fact that the last person in the world she would ever expect had in no uncertain terms abandoned her. With nary a word. She was hurt, wounded, and that made her furious.

She smiled sadly, remembering. It had been easy to transfer any anxiety she felt over her pregnancy in addition to how much she was hurting. Take all of it and fuse the emotions into a single coil of white hot anger.

Though on occasion it occurred to her that he left _everything_ behind, not just her, she found little solace in the fact. She wasn't everyone. She should've mattered more. Lois didn't care how selfish that sounded.

Because in the end, she didn't matter more. Not even enough to warrant a goodbye. Lois remembered how alone she felt then, even with Richard. She felt alone, cast aside.

But mostly she was fucking angry.

And that was that. Richard was there, solid. A good man to be counted on.

Ultimately Lois knew, that she could look at the sky night after night and wait for _him_ to appear, like a white knight out of a storybook. Sit and wait for silly notions of fairy tales and love to come true. But she also knew that while she waited, she would be chained, turning. A well of wishes.

No. She couldn't. Wouldn't be made weak like that. She began to think maybe love as she'd originally envisioned it was really only a fable. A fake. Just a mural on a ceiling, or a children's fairy tale. A bedtime story she'd told herself.

_No longer. _Lois remembered the vehemence with which she uttered that phrase. She'd bitterly convinced herself that if _he_ was out there somewhere, he wasn't looking or waiting for her.

And she did love Richard. Maybe in the beginning she was too damaged to see it. But now, she knew that he was there when she needed him to be—a trait which afforded him a significant advantage in her eyes.

And most importantly, Richard would make a fine father to her child.

And he has been, she added silently with more than a little regret. He loved Jason, with an intensity that still surprised her.

And that mattered. But it didn't change anything.

Lois remembered how hard she tried in those days to cast aside her suspicions, crush the tiny voice that knew the truth.

As the reality of her pregnancy sank in, however, she began to feel more than see flashes—impressions of almost otherworldly soft, silver sheets—white linen material peeling back and away revealing impossibly warm, hard skin beneath—gentle hands leaving trails of heat wherever they touched—his voice next to her ear murmuring barely audible words of love—her name over and over.

Sensations residual and real that sent shivers down her spine in the recollection.

And now? Now Lois knew these to be her memories, distorted somehow, but undeniably real.

All of it, Luthor, everything, confirmed the long-obscured suspicions she'd had. All the signs that she'd seen but keenly ignored until now.

Jason's difficult pregnancy and what everyone thought, mistakenly it would seem, to be a significantly premature birth. All of his health issues.

And now she possessed proof, irrefutable and solid as crystal.

Crystal that glowed deadly green.

Lois let her arms hang at her sides, closed her eyes again, felt the chilly wind brush the sleeves of her robe away and then toward her arms.

She remembered with potent fear Luther waving the sculpted green mass at them, threatening, leering. So taken with the intricacies of his own genius that he did not initially detect.

But Lois noticed Jason's apparent fatigue the moment they were escorted to the boat's main chamber and deposited in the desk chair.

The child had settled in her lap, slumped against her immediately, impossibly still. She'd been too afraid then to dwell on how strangely motionless he was. She took it for fear.

The discovered presence of Kryptonite upended that theory.

As Luthor brought the glowing green toward Jason's face, Lois felt her son's breathing almost stop, as he seemed to flatten further against her body.

Lois tasted acid in her mouth, felt her own breathing speed up, realizing as Luthor did.

_Who is that boy's father?_

She wished the name she answered was the truth. Wished it with everything inside her.

But the clammy sweat she felt on Jason's forehead made the name she gave a lie.

She knew beyond doubt then.

And when Jason saved her…she began to feel real fear.

Lois recalled almost in slow motion Luthor's henchman grinning, holding the fax machine's detached cord, silencing her plea for help. In the end her subterfuge had failed, her ingenuity no match for the vigilant gaze of a no-name thug. Lois grimaced at the weakness she'd been reduced to.

She couldn't defend against the larger man's blows, but she wasn't afraid then for herself

_If I die what will happen to Jason?_

Over and over the thought repeated, resounding in time to the man's steps toward her, to her pounding heart.

Lois recalled with vivid detail the room, the man advancing upon her. How she looked up from where she'd been thrown, watched the man happily select a bludgeoning tool, met his grisly, smiling eyes as he prepared to end her struggle.

And then the man wasn't there anymore. But neither was the piano.

She looked across the room. Jason stood, wide-eyed, arms outstretched. It took Lois a moment to register—Jason, the piano, and now the barely visible but clearly unmoving henchman.

Her son. Small for his age, sickly and fragile. _Had killed_.

To protect her from a very bad man, she knew. Someone intent on brutally killing her. If Jason hadn't…acted, Lois thought, suppressing a shudder, she'd be dead.

Still the implications of what he'd done.

Lois had no idea how to even begin to help him or comfort him. He hadn't talked to her about it, but she remembered the look in his eyes on the boat, after it happened.

A mother knows when her son is frightened. Hell, she was frightened. But Jason never mentioned it.

Still, he seemed okay. Not deeply traumatized as, perhaps, Lois conceded, he ought to be. He was quieter than usual these days, more contemplative. She wasn't sure if he understood what happened, or more troubling, that he understood exactly what happened.

He was just a little boy, after all. And he needed to be told—deserved to be told—the truth. Jason was not stupid, far from it. He would have questions. If not now, then sometime soon, he would have questions.

Would she be able to answer them? Lois grimaced. She didn't know.

She felt again the faintest twinge, the loosened grip on control, her life spinning into chaos.

Lois once more closed her eyes against dangerous, unraveling thoughts, pulled her arms tightly around her body. No matter how firmly she hugged herself, she couldn't shake the chill. Then she felt a new gust of wind on her face.

About damn time he showed up.

Without opening her eyes, Lois said, "Thought you might drop by."

"I was in the neighborhood."

She opened her eyes. He floated a few feet of the end of the yard, above the water. The water was a shapeless dark beneath him.

"How's the general state of the world this evening? Light on disasters?" Her voice sounded glib to her ears, certainly more fluent than she felt. Good. Keep it up, Lane.

He smiled almost imperceptibly, touched down on the lawn a few feet away. "Nothing of note. But the night is still young." He was playing the word game, too, Lois noted. Keep it light, keep it safe. Fine with her.

Lois wanted to ask him why the hell he was here. She wanted to ask a lot of things. Like what she was supposed to do now with Richard, with Jason, with _him_. How her life had been changed irrevocably the last few days and yet hadn't, on the surface, changed at all. She was terrified for her son, for what the simple act of growing up held in store for him.

What about his health problems, would they disappear as he matured?

Frankly, Lois was still fuzzy on the details of the kid's conception, but she didn't know how in God's name she would ever find a way to ask that.

Instead she kept quiet while he continued to describe his encounters—a fire he'd extinguished in Miami, a bomb threat he'd sorted out in Washington. Newsworthy, but not anything that would be particularly gripping on-page, the reporter voice inside her head judged.

She watched him, wondering if this was going to be a regular thing. Her standing outside in a bathrobe, him stopping by for a late-night chat. In the days since he'd left the hospital she'd seen him twice. She started to contemplate how many times she'd see him in the _next_ few days. Lois stopped herself. _Not constructive._

She concentrated on what he was saying, something about a hostage situation in South America.

He stopped speaking. His face darkened a little. "No sign of Luthor, though." He walked toward her. Now he stood in the thin beam of light cast by the porch lamp. Light enough for her to note his handsome features didn't seem any worse for wear after everything that happened. _Of course not._

She nodded. "He always was good at that—the running and hiding part."

The shadow on his face grew more pronounced. He seemed almost…defeated. "I know. I just, the idea that he's out there…" He trailed off, looking up at her, fixing her in a more direct stare. "It doesn't sit well with me."

Lois shifted under his piercing gaze. "He seemed…" She searched for words. "Darker. This time. Harder." Lois allowed reporter voice to speak more, mused aloud. "You have to wonder what happened to him in prison."

He considered her a moment. "He talked to you? While you were on his boat?"

Furrowing her brow, she nodded. "He wanted an interview. I think he wanted to make sure his plans got the publicity he thought they deserved. You know him." Looking up Lois noticed he was frowning. She met his eyes questioningly.

He clenched his jaw. "Sorry. The idea that he _had_ you and…" He paused, met her eyes. "You and Jason. It makes me…" He trailed off again, looked down for a beat. "The thought….bothers me." He finally finished.

Lois nodded. "Well, I bet he regrets taking us with him now anyway." She said quietly. She grimaced. "Or at least the goon with the tattoo does."

He looked at her quizzically, not understanding. Lois pursed her lips, glanced fixedly at a spot on the lawn.

"I sent a fax with coordinates to the Planet. The guy caught me." She softly narrated with as little detail as possible, not quite ready to tell this story with any sort of emotional embellishment.

Lois continued to speak to the ground. "I was…he was going to kill me." She looked up sharply. "Jason hit him with a piano."

He stared at her, taken off guard. There was a pause in which Lois attempted to gauge his reaction to this news. His eyes were dark; she couldn't make out his face the way the shadows fell. He finally spoke. "Does he…has he said anything?"

"Not to me." She continued to observe him intently.

He was silent. He glanced up at the house, seemed to be watching Jason through the walls. Apparently nothing was amiss there, he turned to meet her eyes.

"What do you think we should do?" He asked her finally, in a quiet voice that made her squint towards his figure in the dark, trying to read his expression once more. Unable to discern from shadowed light, she sighed, answered with a resignation that surprised her.

"Beats me. This wasn't exactly a chapter in any of those 'baby books' my mother sent me."

"Should I talk to him?"

She shrugged. "What would you say?"

"I don't know, that it's okay? Does he understand what happened?"

"I don't know!" She felt a flare of emotion. "Frankly I don't even understand what happened!" He was silent, pensive. Lois took a deep breath. "Did you do anything like this when you were his age?"

"I guess. But my parents…" He stopped, looked at her.

She raised her eyebrows. "Your _parents_. Your Mom didn't happen to write a 'How To' novel for parents of superhuman children, by any chance?"

He smiled thinly, not answering. Lois understood. "I get it. Don't want to reveal too much, endanger the super identity."

"Lois that's not…"

"Although if you can't tell me, after _everything_, then I don't know who you can—."

"No one." He interrupted her, his voice rising in emotion. "I tell no one. That way nobody gets hurt. If the bad guys don't know who _I_ am then they don't know those close to me who can be used, who can be hurt, because of me."

She shook her head. "Luthor knows." Lois met his eyes. "Luthor knows Jason is your son."

He looked aghast. "How?"

"He had Kryptonite. Jason…reacted to it. "

She could feel waves of apprehension reverberating from him. "Did it…hurt…him?"

"I don't think so. He was very still. Like it was hard to move. Luthor guessed. And the piano…I can only assume he put two and two together." She saw his worried expression, added "But no, I don't think the Kryptonite hurt him."

He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. "Lois, I'm so sorry."

Lois closed her eyes. This conversation could not veer further from any desired path. "You're sorry." She repeated. "I know, you said that already."

He looked stricken. Lois felt a pang of remorse, he was trying to communicate with her and she was still letting fly jabs about his absence. About which he was clearly miserable.

He spoke, startling her from her self-recriminations. "I'm, lately that's been how I've felt all the time. Lois, I'm so sorry." His face was pale in the thin beam of light as he stepped towards her. "I regret so many choices I've made." He continued, his eyes imploring, searched her. "Most of all, I regret how much I've let you down. If I had stayed, I would have been here with you. For all of this." He turned to look sadly at the house once more. "I could've helped Jason." He said more quietly, almost to himself. His voice was grieved, harsh. "My _parents_ taught me control, and I should've done the same for my…child. My son."

She felt emotion crest inside of her, pushed it back down. Lois couldn't stifle a single tear from falling from her eye.

He stepped toward her, finally closing the distance between them. He stood fully in the light now, brushed the tear from her check. She couldn't stop herself from giving in as he gently wrapped his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin. She closed her eyes against the warmth of his chest.

He whispered into her hair. "Lois…I want you to know that…I'm going to make amends. I can't ever regain the time I lost, with you, with our son. But I'm going to try and make up for it." As he spoke he stroked the back of her neck with his thumb almost imperceptibly.

Almost. Lois closed her eyes, instantly recalling in muddled detail another time he'd touched her this way. She tried to suppress the tiny shudder his touch elicited, remembering herself.

She took a step backward. She had to get far enough away to think clearly. She remained close enough though that she could still read his eyes clearly.

She searched his face, imploring. "Why can't you just tell me? At least give me your real name—you have no idea how odd it is that I don't the name of my child's father."

"Lois, we've been through this. The last time you looked too hard we—" He stopped abruptly, alarmed by this last admission.

"The last time? What last time?" She stopped, her breathing hitched. "My memories." She realized. "They're real."

He was watching her intensely, his brow furrowed.

Lois stepped toward him, searching his eyes. "What happened?" She demanded. "Why can't I remember?"

He met her gaze, grasped her shoulders in his hands, he seemed about to kiss her. Instead he said softly. "I loved you too much."

Before she could ask anything else, Lois felt a whoosh of air. He was gone.


	2. CK

AN: Something that I thoroughly appreciated about what Bryan Singer did with the Superman character was how much more human he made him seem. Not in terms of powers or anything like that, just speaking about the emotional aspect. So much of the Superman franchise is dedicated to upholding this idea that he's pure or something, but in SR we see Superman reacting with jealousy to Lois' apparent change of heart toward him, drinking, dealing with the aftermath of sleeping with Lois. Some seriously human shite. The stuff that fanfic writers' dreams are made of, eh?

And so, I thought I'd try my hand at giving the Big Guy a chance to voice some thoughts. Takes place immediately after events in last chapter.

Reprisals

Chapter 2: CK

By: OneSongKatie

Flying was exhilarating. There simply weren't words for it—the rush of adrenaline, the sense of total freedom. Streaming through the skies, pushing himself ever faster until the world distorted around him in a lineless river of color and shape. It allowed him to glimpse how it felt to be as god-like as so many extolled him to be. Weightless, powerful, liberated—like no feeling in the universe.

That wasn't entirely true.

Clark closed his eyes, willing his mind away from razor sharp thoughts like that. Thoughts that lead to _her_.

The velocity of his speeding form pierced the night's stillness. He pressed his arms tensely at his sides. He habitually tried to avoid the 'speeding bullet' cliché, but still. It wasn't an 'arms-up' kind of night. Maybe because tonight, _flying_ felt more like _running away_.

Buildings and landscape passed underneath him. He didn't look closely enough to discriminate one shape from another in the muddled dark of the evening. Among the muted outlines he knew were homes with families and normal lives. Children asleep in beds, husbands and wives doing dishes, watching TV together, discussing the events of their day, paying bills, making grocery lists.

Nothing he would ever have to worry about in his life.

He sped onward, trying like hell once more to clear his mind. He opened his eyes as the chilly wind numbed his body, wishing he could numb his heart.

He was just…flying. Heading in an anonymous direction with no particular destination in mind. He smiled bitterly at himself. How can you choose a destination when you don't actually have anywhere to go?

Flying at this speed afforded him a significant comfort—he could no longer make out individual voices from the din of sound that besieged him at all times.

The only voices he could hear now were those emanating from within his own head.

The voices of his fathers. The farmer, big-hearted Jonathan Kent and the infinitely intellectual scientist Jor-El. While quite literally worlds apart outwardly, the two voices sounded eerily similar when they resounded together in his mind—bidding him in their own words to achieve greatness, reminding him of his importance, hurting him with the constant call to responsibility.

He stole a glance at the 'S' emblem on his chest. Considered what it stood for.

So many called him 'Super,' as if that were a name, any indicator of identity. It was a brand name, what the papers dubbed him all those years ago.

Well, he knew who he could thank for that.

It's not her fault he never set her right, he reminded himself.

It amused him initially. If he felt remotely like laughing tonight, he would chuckle at himself.

_Of course it had._ How could he be but thrilled—_she_ was the one who coined it. Back then her attention delighted him, intrigued him. Hell, it terrified him a little too in those days.

And he ultimately embraced the moniker not because he liked the sound the words made cheered by bystanders, not because he felt flattered by her special role in its universal utilization (though he _did_, a small, nagging voice in his head prompted), but because he felt accepted, loved for it.

The people of Earth _embraced_ him with that name. He liked the way it felt—as if this planet was truly home.

But he wasn't human.

And the 'S' was not really short-hand for any adjective.

The crest of his ancestor, Sor-El, emblazoned on his own chest and eons ago, he imagined, the vast crystal structures of his family. He respected what it stood for, what long ago it must have meant to his parents, to their fellow citizens.

Sometimes he could not stop himself from feeling it was little more than a legacy to which he must always be shackled.

Tonight it didn't mean much to him at all. Distant crystal kings and the way their glittering castles finally crumbled around them. Ashes scattered across a barren planet. Destroyed structures now grim reminders of misplaced optimism.

Clark started, slowed his pace a little high above murky water and shadowy landmass. He'd never felt this way before. Dark, disconsolate, even cynical thoughts tinged his every movement, shrouded his vision, transformed the world around him.

It troubled him to brood so. Clark knew this disposition did not become him. Nor was it inherently in his nature but a by-product of recent decisions. And events.

He named the new acid emotion currently fueling his grim mood—he was bitter.

He wasn't a man. Jor-El's voice echoed loudly in his ears, reminding him. _Even though you've been raised as a human, you are not one of them._

No matter how much he wished to be.

In his mind he was Clark. Extraordinary, equipped with other-worldly powers and abilities, but still self-supposing and just trying to feel his way through life like any other person. His parents were Jonathan and Martha Kent. He grew up in Smallville, Kansas amid endless rows of corn and herds of cows on a farm dusty with age and use.

He left this planet five years ago to search for something he thought he was missing, some mysterious piece of himself. Krypton meant unlocking the secrets of understanding—of self-knowledge.

But to see it—a graveyard steeped in the ashes of the dead with no sun to sift the shadows from its surface. He made an instant, grievous discovery.

There was no key to unlocking his own heart—and no easy way to discover what he yearned for. The path he needed to travel was the complicated existence waiting on Earth.

Just like everybody else.

His path might be a little different in terms of scope, Clark reasoned, but when you brushed off the gilding, at the core, what he searched for was no greater than the simple platitudes his father—the father of his heart—Jonathan Kent once bestowed upon him.

Just to live in the world and make sense of it. And if you could, find peace.

It took him five years and a doomed pilgrimage across space to realize it—but _home_ was not the dead planet that he'd so recently viewed with his own eyes.

Home was here, with his mother, his friends at The Planet, the people of Earth. Lois. And now, he added as a faint look of awe augmented his features, with his son. No matter how complicated that might be.

He knew it with finality. In his ship, weakened by the sea of glittering Kryptonite that greeted him upon arrival and returning home, he drifted in and out of deep, trance-like sleep. And in his muted dreams the shards of his feverish, semi-conscious mind called him Clark.

Only large, looming, phantom faces addressing him from cavernous walls of ice spoke to him as _Kal-El_.

He realized too, that he had always wanted Lois to love him as Clark.

In his heart, he knew, Clark was who he truly desired to be. Not Kal-El, heir to Jor-El's enduring force of spirit. Not even the Man of Steel with his smooth courtliness, the whip-crack quips and witty one-liners.

Clark wanted Lois to see him for the man he was beneath the layer of theatricality, the glasses and clumsy waves, farther yet below the red cape. And she had five years ago—easily identified the divergent identities he embodied daily and pinpointed where the two personas met. No matter how dark Clark's mood, her tenacity made him smile, despite himself.

When Lois realized the nature of his everyday disguise, she looked into his eyes and really _saw_ him. For the first time, she saw him. Knew him to be the man and the hero—two sides of a coin, both dangerously in love with her.

But he wasn't a man.

He should not have forgotten _that_ five years ago. Perhaps more truthfully, he should not have pretended he _could_ forget.

If he had remembered, Lois would not be hurting right now. Because of him.

_How could you leave us?_ She asked, and the emotion in her eyes had stolen the breath from his body.

Clark remembered in sharp, painful detail how much he had taken for granted. In truth, all those years ago when he first heard of the potential existence of Krypton, he both welcomed and balked at the idea of leaving.

He needed to follow this final chance—to see if a home really could be found. Though many years had passed, he remembered how much he had still been reeling from the events following his narrow defeat of Zod.

Clark flew faster, wishing the force of speeding wind and freezing air could numb his thoughts as he remembered her tears. He'd gone to work that morning, his required actions clear and rational. But she'd looked at him with so much sadness. In that moment he felt weak, inadequate, guilty, and simply heartbroken. It destroyed him to take her memories of their time together from her. It had to be and yet, part of him fought against it with acute fervency.

It seemed almost too cruel that he alone remember how happy they were, how easily they slid into a relationship and how right that seemed.

When unconscious on his ship he dreamed of her almost constantly, seemed to live in the memories of the little time they shared. In a bizarre and harsh twist of fate, revoking the memories from Lois served to deepen and augment the sensations in _his_ recollection.

Some universal sense of dramatic irony, he supposed. Maybe it was penance.

Snippets of conversations and moments he'd played over and over again in his mind came back to him now, the words and images forever seared red hot into his memory.

Tracing the long, slender line of her arm with his fingertips, resting finally on the soft skin of her shoulder. The silver sheets rippled, silk and satin, smooth, melting like warm candle wax. His hand stroked her hair, his lips trailed along her skin, found her closed eyes, the side of her nose, her earlobe. Her fingertips discovered the contours of his chest, the ridges of his abs. Their sighs mingled, moans deep with longing, muscles tightening, hearts pounded…he was so gentle for her, so careful for her. Just in case any residue of his power remained.

Clark had felt peace—the answer to what he eternally searched for. He'd never been so happy in his life, never felt so _content_.

_Never would again_, a tiny, bitter voice reminded him.

The prospect of being around her every day unable to look into her eyes and see these same emotions and shared memories there had broken his heart.

_And made it easier to walk away. _

Lois reproached him about not saying goodbye. It appeared she considered it a snub, an oversight on his part.

But that wasn't it. Not even close, he thought sadly. Maybe it was some kind of survival tendency for her, a reflexive anger that hurt less than the ache of loss. Whatever her unsaid reasoning, she couldn't be farther off the mark.

Before he left he imagined it so many times, telling her about Krypton, about needing to see it. Every time he pictured it, the scenario ended with him incapable of leaving her.

His chest felt hollow, hard. He clenched his fists, flying faster, welcoming the sharp pull of the wind on his body.

He had been so in love with her it almost killed him.

It would have served him right, he chided. A stronger person would have kept their distance in the first place. The rules were clear on that point—no interference in human history, no real interaction. Look but don't touch.

If you never get close then no one gets hurt.

He could have protected Lois from all of this if he had just stayed away from her.

It was a constant fight where Lois was concerned. A fight between his heart and mind. A fight no one was really going to win.

What about Jason? The child they created. A reminder that, though Clark erased Lois' memory of the event, there was no taking back what happened.

His existence confused Clark's all-encompassing guilt. How could he wish away his son? This little boy he'd known for so short a time, but was so very precious to him.

Every time he thought of Jason his heart tightened in his chest, leaving him feeling light-headed, breathless. He could not suppress a surge of something like giddiness that obliterated all other feelings of painful, biting remorse.

Clark didn't know what the future held in store for the boy. He'd barely had time to fully digest the revelation of his role in Jason's existence himself.

He remembered, even comatose in his hospital bed the clarity with which he heard the words Lois spoke. The meaning, the tremendous truth she revealed, spiraled down to where his conscious self instinctively rested, shocked him back to near awareness.

A few hours later he awakened, a shaky smile on his lips, and a purpose in his unsteady movements. _A need to look upon his son._

He didn't mean to encounter Lois that night or this. He didn't want to cause her more pain, understanding the difficult maze of choices and knowledge that now characterized her life. But he had. _And he had. _

He winced.

Clark wasn't sure he could stay away.

He went to her house tonight without real consideration or goal—he just needed to _see_ one more time. That they were okay. Jason was real, and so beautiful it stopped his breath.

He didn't want to get in the way, disrupt her life any more, but he also could not deny a vital, urgent need to see her.

And Jason.

Tonight he went intending to sit with his sleeping son, observe him, memorize every angle of his face. Clark had wasted five years of knowing Jason, watching him grow, learn. He needed to make up for that, even if it meant simply watching him while he slept. Clark knew in this convoluted web of relationships he had to take what he could get.

But, instead he encountered her. More than encountered her, stood next to her, inhaled the soft vanilla smell of her hair, spoke with her.

He inhaled sharply, remembering what she'd divulged. Clark was still reeling from what Lois told him. Factored Kryptonite, Lex Luthor, and the launching of a piano into his ever growing assessment of Jason.

He added his own final observation to the litany: clear blue eyes that did not match the iron gray of Lois' irises. Blue eyes he remembered at the edges of his consciousness, eyes that held sadness and steely resolve as the man Clark knew to be his biological father bid him goodbye.

In his own quiet thoughts he knew no matter how complicated the circumstances, it delighted him beyond comprehension to see his own eyes, the eyes of his ancestors, on a tiny face that looked so like hers.

_Luthor knew about Jason._ The thought chilled him, sent icicles of fear down his spine. Luthor's words at the New Krypton landmass returned to him, echoed in his ears, agonizingly joined in his memory with crippling pain.

_Not unlike a son inheriting the traits of his father. _

Luthor definitely knew. There was no denying the biting cynicism in the man's voice. Clark wished again that he could track Luther down, discover his whereabouts. He knew better than anyone when Lex took himself off the grid, it was only a matter of time before he emerged with new fervency.

Lois and Jason weren't safe while he was at large. That would not stand.

Clark sighed deeply, feeling a rare weariness settling over him.

He set his jaw, knowing the gnawing truth in all of this.

It all went back to his choices five years ago.

Clark blinked, remembering another surprising detail in his conversation earlier tonight. Choices, it seemed, Lois was beginning to remember. Clark recalled with newly realized wonder that the memories he took in a fateful, final kiss were returning to her. He could not begin to comprehend the ramifications of this sequence of events.

How much and how far would she remember? Clark turned inward, searching his own remembrances of that time.

Since his recent return to Earth, he reflected on what happened those five years almost constantly. No surprise there. These days he had all the time in the world, he thought with sudden cynicism. Plenty of time to mull over what might have been.

So much was jumbled in his mind about that time. Lois and his frustrations with the ever-worsening spell she held over him. An inability to think clearly where she was concerned. The series of events that lead to Jason's conception, and his own subsequent departure.

He liked to play the 'If Only' game with himself when he felt particularly morose. If only he hadn't discovered the scientists' findings about the existence of Krypton. If only he had considered going, but realized his place was here, that Earth needed him more. If only he'd contemplated the consequences his absence would entail.

If only he'd stayed a little longer he could have detected Lois' pregnancy.

_That_ cut him most deeply. If only he'd known what would have then been the unthinkable.

Instead he left her. Alone. Without explanation or farewell. Abandoned her. When she was carrying his baby.

She must have felt so afraid. He inhaled slowly, feeling familiar sensations of remorse and shame twist within his chest.

The possibility had not suggested itself to him on any level of consciousness—though his ability to deflect bullets with his body had dissolved, his DNA was still _alien_. And apparently more compatible then he thought, he acknowledged with a weary smile.

But Jason was so fragile—Clark couldn't help but suppose all of the little boy's health problems were _his_ fault. Something like gaps in molecular structure that Jason's body now fought to sort out, assemble.

Surely the sun would help, Clark reasoned. Maybe he could talk to Lois, fly Jason closer to the sun.

Maybe Jason would fly to the sun one day himself.

He smiled more fully at that, could not stop himself from trying to guess when and what powers his son would possess.

Clark thought back to his own childhood, cataloguing his vague memories of what he could do at what age.

Once when he was very young, perhaps younger than Jason, a rafter in the barn broke free of its holdings and crashed, catching his mother under its weight. He remembered hearing his mother's calls for help, hauling the beam high above his head, tossing it away from her fallen form.

_What would his mother think,_ the thought suddenly occurred to him. He hadn't told her yet, about Jason. He felt more the shy Kansas farm-boy then ever, wondering how to explain, exactly, tried to find words he didn't feel ashamed to speak to his mother.

_Your father would have never let you go._ That's what she said. And it was true, he knew. He could not help but feel the comment meant something more—that it was her way of telling him he left without thorough consideration, that his actions were impulsive. She was right.

But she would want to know her grandson, it was certain. More than that, he knew. She would be thrilled. Clark didn't know how to make a meeting happen, maybe she could come to Metropolis and…his thoughts trailed off. So complicated.

Complication constricted every part of his life these days. He went to work and watched his son from far away. He couldn't even hug Jason without looking conspicuous. He had to stand there day after day and mime nonchalance as Lois shared her life with another man.

The extreme deception he now saw before him stole his breath. Could he do this? His heart hurt with the implications, the undertaking. His considerable knack for theatricality could very well not be up to the immensity of this new pretense.

It was times like these Clark really missed his father.

He cared for his mother deeply with the same trusting devotion always, a love that hadn't changed since he was a child. She'd held him when he was scared, stroked his hair, watched over him when some bizarre Kryptonite-related malady affected him until the poison passed from his body. There was no one in any universe who could take her place in his heart.

But when it came to teaching, to explaining in words he could understand, to guiding his heart and mind, he saw the kind face of his father. Jonathan Kent kept Clark's feet squarely planted on hard Kansas soil while somehow never failing to steer his gaze to the stars. Though the greater details escaped his father's awareness, he knew his son had a vastly more intricate destiny than inheriting a farm. And so he keenly did his best to equip Clark with a functioning moral compass, endeavored always to stress doing _right_ over _easy, _attempting to work situations through with words rather than actions,andunderstandingoverdomination.

More than that, Clark thought, his father always had answers. As a child, Clark had so many questions. About the world, about himself, about why he had to wear big glasses all the time. He could talk about anything with his father because his father could make sense of what Clark deemed utterly incomprehensible, explain the world in terms Clark could grasp.

Jor-El could unlock the universe's mysteries, clarify any scientific theorem, detail vastly advanced technology from galaxies he'd never heard of. But that's not what Clark needed right now.

Clark needed his father to tell him what to do. He wanted so badly to talk to him, just one more time. He would have loved Jason so much, would have recognized the fiery spirit in the little boy. Clark wished Jonathan could have met his grandson.

But Jonathan Kent died a long time ago. He was buried in the Kansas earth.

Clark realized the direction he now flew. He was heading for his home. Not the palace of cold and newly silent ice to the north, but the only place Clark had ever really called home.

Lex Luthor had gone underground and no amount of searching would unearth him until he'd formed a new scheme.

Clark wanted to see his mother. He needed tonight to digest all that had happened, think about how to proceed. He accelerated his passage toward the western sky, the night's darkness deepened around him as he progressed farther from the city's lights.

He had the bulk of this night to spend, and he hoped with the sun's eventual rising he would feel stronger. And he would at least glimpse something nearing resolution.


	3. RW

AN: Wow, I am both aware and embarrassed about how long it has taken me to return to this fic. It more than deserves a conclusion, but I admit I was a bit stymied as to how to continue it. Then I remembered that in the movie I found the character of Richard to be quite complicated. Intriguing and maddening—intriguing because he genuinely was a good guy (and therefore more difficult to root against), and maddening because now that he's established as a member of Bryan Singer's new mythology, what the hell do you do with him? So, here's the final chapter.

Reprisals

Chapter 3: RW

By: OneSongKatie

Richard had been doing a lot of thinking lately. Sitting in his office at work, driving through the streets of Metropolis, watching television, making coffee, flipping through his CD collection at home, walking through the events of his day half-present, dimly distracted.

His thoughts would drift of their own accord to replay over and over events and images.

Airplanes, Lex Luthor, and otherworldly stone rising from dark water, green crystal, coordinates.

He didn't usually tend to dwell inordinately on anything, he preferred more active participation in his fate—to confront, or fix, engage directly rather than passively. He didn't like to brood, too sedentary.

But that was before.

Before Superman returned from oblivion and landed with a crashing crimson flourish in the middle of his world. Before Richard began to question the _true_ state of that world.

So much had happened recently to shake the foundations of what used to be a pretty stable life. Or so he had always considered it.

Stable, normal, happy even. But now. Now there were thoughts.

A few years ago he flew around the globe at his uncle's behest, cutting a swath across meridians, chasing stories for a paper, yes, but more also. Though he could not give it a name, Richard knew he chased something more elusive than a headline.

He never stayed in any one place for more than a short time. If he lingered too long finishing a story in some European hotel room, or waiting for a source to show in a Middle Eastern tobacco bar, he began to feel unsettled, impatient.

Deep in his bones an unnamable need rumbled to keep moving, get going. Richard remembered, oddly detached now, how he felt an invisible pull upon his body.

Those were days that played like flashes in his memory, brief frames of image and sound, that actually spanned years. Years of his life that held no more meaning for him than the realization that he wasn't quite happy. Not quite there.

It all changed when he met Lois. The need for perpetual motion, the discomfort immobility caused him, vanished. Dissolved into large, faintly sad gray irises which occasionally shifted inexplicably skyward.

She was his anchor, securing him, completing him.

Richard smiled at the irony, poetic enough, though perhaps more tragic than he allowed. That she would be the one to buoy him swiftly and surely to hard ground, to Metropolis.

When she ever searched upward, watching the cloudy skies for _his_ figure.

Richard was tired. He rubbed his eyes with his palms, took a deep breath. Tried to find some kind of balance. After all, he had work to do.

He sat at his desk, an article open on his computer screen. Nothing of real, vital interest. Something that, truth be told, wasn't even terribly newsworthy in the world he now inhabited.

A world where men, god-like, cradled the fuselages of airliners in their arms.

The cursor blinked, hypnotizing him, blurring his eyesight, unfocusing his gaze. He swiveled in his chair, turned to look out his window. The sun gleamed brightly, reflecting off of buildings and lending warm light to the sharp mahogany angles of his office.

Behind him he could hear the scratch of Jason's crayons.

A day off from school, Lois had said. He needed some time to adjust.

Richard wasn't going to argue. He hardly ever argued, really, but that wasn't the point. The point was Lois seemed to think Jason had something he needed _adjusting_ to.

Richard sighed, passing a hand over his eyes. Richard understood. Obviously when that bald psychopath, Luthor, kidnapped Lois and Jason, the experience must have been terrifying.

But Jason didn't seem terrified anymore. He didn't seem any different at all.

He turned his head slightly to study the little boy. Jason sat concentrating on his drawing, the bright beams of sunlight refracting golden flecks in his hair.

When his head tilted a little the light caught the unnatural blue of his eyes, those eyes that seemed so strangely familiar sometimes. Richard wasn't sure he could consciously consider whom he was reminded of by the singular shade of blue.

He turned once more to face the window, seeking the clear outside sky for counsel. Richard was by no means a pensive man, not given to brooding or living too much in his own head.

Lately though, he found that more and more he remained silent, mulling over past conversations, interactions, silently raking his life through with a fine-toothed memory comb. Sifting, searching.

For what, though? He asked himself, honestly. Why did he now feel as if he were panning the contents of his everyday life for remnants, evidence…of something.

Though he could not (and did not necessarily want to) pinpoint the root of his unease, it was undeniable. After the events of the last few days, his world had shifted, rocked upon its axis until familiar people and things seemed cockeyed, askew.

He remembered suddenly without any detectable cause years ago to his and Lois' trip to Niagara Falls. Five months after the day he met her, he asked her to marry him. It seemed the right time, he loved her, felt so sure about them. He wanted this baby, a family. He wanted to be bound to Lois for his lifetime. He thought then that he was certain about their relationship for the both of them, had enough faith to make it work.

To celebrate they caught a train, arrived right as the sun was setting. It was beautiful, and he felt blissfully happy, thinking he saw in that sunset the harmony that the future surely held for him.

And for his new family. He hadn't quite figured out how he felt about Lois and the pregnancy yet in those days—his mental state ranged from terrified to ecstatic to bewildered beyond comprehension.

Lois exuded much more confidence about it.

Richard smiled to himself, knowing that what she "exuded" and what really went on in her head were usually wholly dissimilar.

_No matter how much time I spend with that woman, she's still a mystery to me_.

That's what he'd said to Clark a few days ago. A glib comment in passing on that occasion, but Richard could not deny—even to himself—the unquestionable truth in the statement.

Looking back now he recognized so many tiny glimmers, unexplained looks, moments she forgot herself and seemed uncharacteristically wistful.

Standing on the back porch of their brand new trendy suburban home looking out at empty night sky.

Staring at nothing through an open window. Well, nothing he could see.

But that day amid the roaring falls and clear weather, even Lois smiled in a different way. A new smile that meant to his mind that she was happy in her life with him. Maybe, Richard thought, in retrospection it really meant she _accepted_ her life with him.

Still, there was one strange shadow on his memory of their trip. After checking into their hotel that night (he remembered the décor was ghastly, and that was saying something considering his own knowledge of interior design was considerably lacking), they woke early the next morning and ventured out to see the falls.

Some bratty kid was playing on the bars looking over the falls. Lois looked absolutely shaken to the core. It was something he'd never seen before. She was ordinarily so unflappable.

To see her…_flapped_ was unsettling to say the least.

He made a comment, something about parents controlling their kids, our kid will be better behaved. She barely acknowledged him.

She seemed hypnotized, her eyes fixed with a strange intensity on the spot where the kid used to be. Lois walked slowly toward the edge of the path and leaned over the railing. She leaned so far into the rushing air above the water she began to resemble the petulant child, whose parents had just hauled him off with a scolding.

While he watched from where he stood a few feet away, he was frozen, waiting. For what seemed like hours.

She stayed that way, peering over into the rumbling water below, staring at something he could not see.

As per usual.

"Daddy?"

Richard turned away from the window at the sound of Jason's voice. As he faced the boy, he caught sight of Lois sitting with Clark through the glass of his office wall. They were looking at something on a desk together, talking quietly, heads bowed conspiratorially.

He deliberately looked away from the two, turned to focus his attention on Jason, sitting across from him in a chair so large it seemed to dwarf the little boy.

"Daddy, can we get a dog?"

Richard blinked at him. Not what he was expecting. Jason had never expressed interest in owning a pet before now.

"That's a lot of responsibility, buddy." He answered slowly, wondering where this was coming from. "I don't think it's the right time for a pet. Maybe in a couple of years, though."

Jason nodded. Richard studied him for a minute. He glanced at Jason's artwork.

"What are you drawing?" He asked, seeing immediately the answer. The bright red and blue colors could not be mistaken, even upside down and slightly obscured by Jason's shirt sleeve.

"Superman." Jason replied without looking up. He selected a yellow crayon.

Richard leaned forward to view what went with the ubiquitous super hero this time. Jason had drawn little else in the time following his encounter with the man—many of the pictures featuring a less-diligently drawn Richard of course—much to his chagrin.

It wasn't enough that he had a grudging respect and deep admiration for the man, not to mention he owed Superman every ounce of gratitude imaginable for saving his family. But to be faced with his presence at every turn…Richard was resilient, he was a strong man, but the prospect of competing with a god bothered him.

To be reminded that his life was not wholly his own. That bothered him.

Richard tilted his head a little, Jason's picture became clearer. It was Superman with characteristic red cape billowing, standing in what looked like a corn field—the yellow and green stalks were pretty detailed, he noted.

"That guy again, huh." He commented carefully keeping his tone light, careful to quash any sarcasm that might be threatening to darken his interactions with Jason. "You really like him, don't you?"

Jason didn't spare him a glance, just nodded his head, concentrating.

Next to Superman in the picture Richard could make out a series of lines and squiggles shaping what was clearly a dog, complete with wagging tail and drooping red tongue.

He was really a decent artist. Richard appreciated the talent, if he didn't necessarily understand it.

He loved Jason, was proud of how smart he was, how naturally gifted in music and academia, his sharp intellect and curiosity. He loved every drawing Jason cheerfully completed and handed over, considered them the most precious of gifts.

But sometimes in his deepest, quietest thoughts he could not deny the tiny voice that wished the little boy would be more like him, even in just the most minuscule way.

Richard liked sports when he was a kid, throwing the ball outside with his father or brother, shooting the BB gun. Richard would love to play catch with his son, or go fishing, or do anything like that. Anything that they had in common. Something _he_ could have with Jason.

But he would never voice any of these thoughts. Certainly not to Jason. He rarely allowed himself the notion. If he continued to let loose these opinions they would consume his conscious, and that would not do.

Instead he squinted at the drawing, cocking his head. He was curious about this particular work of art, it featured a much stranger scenario than any of his others.

"Why did you draw the dog?" Richard asked, glancing sideways at Jason.

Jason looked up briefly before continuing his work. "It's _his_ dog. His name is Shelby."

Richard frowned. "The dog's name is Shelby?"

Jason nodded, shading lightly over the yellow on the dog's coat with a brown crayon.

Richard was mildly befuddled. "How do you know?"

"I had a dream about it." Jason supplied matter-of-factly, his baby lisp catching on the 'r' in dream. "He told me when he was sad, Shelby was his friend."

"Shelby." Richard repeated

"He's _my_ friend, too." Jason added. He continued imperiously, "He likes it when you throw the ball."

Richard thought about that, felt the need to once more clarify, "The _dog_ does?"

Jason nodded his head again, still meticulously working on the color of the dog. Richard had never heard Jason string this many words together before.

"Yeah, and he likes it when I pet him too." Jason was saying, continuing to be uncharacteristically chatty.

Richard blinked, considered this. "And you dreamed about it? When? Last night?"

Jason bobbed his head, yes. Richard was perplexed. He frowned.

"Does the dog live with him?"

"No. He lives at a farm."

That explained the corn. Richard felt unable to suppress continuing this line of questioning. He was afraid where it would veer.

"Have you had dreams about him before?" He asked, wondering at the significance the boy's answer held for him.

"Shelby?" Jason asked.

Richard shook his head. Felt silly even saying the name. "Superman."

Jason paused, thought about it. "We went to a cold place."

Richard raised his eyebrows. "A cold place? What like a hockey rink?"

Jason shook his head, no. He thought before continuing. "In the snow." He answered finally. He spoke deliberately, trying to find the words in his five year old vocabulary. "He said it was mine."

"He said what was yours?"

Jason frowned. "A big house. It was pretty."

Richard was growing more and more puzzled. "Did you go in the big house?"

"That's where the computer was." Jason was matter-of-fact, as if this weren't strange and a little ominous.

"Computer?" Richard repeated, raising his eyebrows.

"He said it was mine, too."

"What did the computer do?" Richard swallowed, his mouth felt dry as sand paper.

Jason, unperturbed, continued coloring. "I put my hand on it and it got all shiny. Can I have burritos for lunch?"

Richard blinked, at a loss. Slowly, he replied, "Sure, buddy. Burritos it is. First, though, will you tell me what else happened in the dream?"

Jason selected another crayon. "I don't remember. Can I have one with chicken?"

Richard started to answer, but at that moment, happened to meet Clark's stare through the glass of his office wall.

Clark looked away immediately, but not before Richard had caught the glimmer of seriousness in his eyes. It looked like concern.

Strange. Not the strangest thing he encountered today. Jason's bizarre dreams took that prize. But still, Clark had seemed to be watching him and Jason.

Richard filed all this away and turned back toward the window. A cloud had passed in front of the sun, dimming the light and making him feel, oddly, a little colder. There was very clearly a larger matrix of events in play here, set in motion when Superman returned to earth and at work still. A shadow, unseen, had moved into the space his life inhabited and he was only now beginning to understand its total scope.

Richard could not comprehend what all of this meant. What this business with Jason and his prophetic dreams could be about. He felt concern for Jason and fear for all of them, the players in this strange game. Him, Lois, Superman. And now, Richard could not deny that Jason was involved somehow. He felt real fear for what was surely looming on all their horizons, and couldn't shake the sensation that something much larger and darker awaited them.

Richard closed his eyes, once more aware of the scratching of Jason's crayons behind him. He clenched the arms of his chair, making a decision. He resolved that though he could not see the greater intelligence that held all their fates in its grasp, he could fiercely protect Jason.

He turned back toward the boy. "Burritos, was it, buddy?" He asked, swallowing his fear, steeling his resolve.

Jason dropped his crayon and hopped out of his chair. "Yes! Burritos!" He exclaimed, scurrying toward the door.

Richard followed him more slowly, walked to the glass and looked a final time in Lois' direction. He fixed a smile on his face and opened the door.


End file.
